


Ouroboros

by Anonymous



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Left to his own devices, it is only ever a matter of time before Draven tests the limits of Swain's patience. Fortunately, Darius knows just how to rein him in.
Relationships: Darius/Draven (League of Legends)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: Anonymous





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to the brain worm that just would not quit. Please mind the tags! If you can accept two characters being canonical, unrepentant murderers but go all pearl-clutchy at the thought of them touching each other's dicks, I don't know what to tell you other than please do not pass go.
> 
> If nasty shit is why you're here, then welcome and enjoy!

“Your brother,” Swain says behind a clawed hand, “Is beginning to toe the line.” 

Darius comes to attention, blinking away the miasma of battle plans and attack formations arrayed on the war table before him. He can hear the edge in Swain’s voice, the subtle insinuation behind what to any less experienced ear might sound like idle musing. 

Darius is not so inexperienced. He toes the line, Swain means, because you allow him to. “Sir,” he grunts, expectant. 

Swain sits in silence for a moment longer, fingers curling beneath his raven’s oil-black beak. His eyes are piercing when he turns them back to Darius. “See that it’s dealt with.” 

So Darius goes where the trouble is.

In the arena's belly torchlight flickers, glinting on stacked weapons and mounted armor, the flames turning the expanse of every plane into a battle of light and shadow and the hard, razor’s edge between. The sound of flesh on flesh echoes through the dim. Darius slams his hips forward, presses the body beneath him harder against the table edge, until the wood bites into the backs of his knuckles, rough grain scraping against callouses. Breeches pool at his knees, drawn taut just below his balls as his cock slides in and out, offering no quarter in its punishing pursuit. When he sheathes it to the hilt, grinding the base in a tight, vicious circle, Draven keens, the sound strangled into a breathless laugh 

It has been this way for years. So long that even Darius cannot remember how they started, how they crossed over from familial to fratricidal and overlapped again until this twisted mockery of affection was all they were left with. Not for the first time, Darius wonders if Swain knows precisely his methods for bringing Draven to heel, or if he cares at all. Darius cannot fault the strategy regardless—why waste time or resources when you can test two chains at once? Darius knows by heart the lines that could be drawn between Draven’s actions, motivations, and their unspoken agreement that this was the only natural recourse. He could chart them, were he inclined. He is not. 

“You think you’re something,” Darius says, voice cool and even despite the way he labors for breath. He grips the champion’s belt where it rests low on Draven’s hips and tugs it hard, forcing himself deeper and noting the yelp of shock with a curl of his lip, “you think this makes you something? You’re a fucking rabid dog; only useful when it gets too depraved for the rest of us, rolling around in filth and for what? For fame, glory?” Darius pulls out slowly, savoring the sight of his cock reemerging, the blunt head stretching Draven’s hole.

“My, my,” Draven spits, still trying for his signature brevity despite the way his body betrays him, shuddering against the table, “aren’t we chatty today? Go ahead, get it off your chest, _brother_.”

“You’re a dog,” Darius summarizes, voice flat, and slams his cock home again. 

Draven shouts, sucks air through his teeth, laughs, “At least I don't beg for scraps at— _ah!_ —politicians' feet, eh? I liked you better when you hacked necks instead of drooling over boots.” 

Darius drops the belt, lunging forward to haul Draven back by his hair. Despite his struggling, Darius slips an arm around his neck easily, flexing corded muscle against the column of his windpipe. Darius leans in close, back bowed and taut, and presses his mouth against the shell of Draven’s ear as he snarls, “Do you want to lose your head? I’m feeling obliging.” 

Fingernails claw at his forearms, grab for his face. Darius jerks away enough that his eyes are in no danger and tightens his grip. He feels Draven’s throat bob, ever desperate to waste his dwindling air. At last Draven speaks, his voice hoarse and thick with dammed up spittle: “ _Fuck me._ ” 

“Whore,” Darius says, and fucks him. 

The pace he sets is brutal, all pretense of savoring abandoned, and Draven arches to meet him thrust for thrust, body trembling like a plucked bowstring. Darius assails him without slowing, arm still a vice around Draven’s throat. Only when the fingers tearing into his forearms go slack and slip does Darius release him, making no move to intercept Draven’s head before it collides with the table with a loud _thunk_. The breath Draven sucks in sounds like a death rattle, wet and desperate. 

Darius allows him only enough time for the one inhale before he steps back, pulling Draven upright. He pivots them and all but throws Draven toward the training mat that lays in the center of the room, stained with sweat and grime. Draven’s knees hit the floor first, the rest of him slumping before he can recover, but he keeps his face out of the dirt. He lurches for the mat, swallowing air in great ugly gulps. Darius follows, gathering the front of his breeches while his cock swings, heavy and throbbing as he hauls Draven forward by the belt again when he doesn't crawl fast enough. Blood smears against the mat as Draven turns his head, mixing with the rest of the indiscriminate stains. If Darius were a navel gazer, he might even call it fitting, say it was poetic.

“Bastard,” Draven snarls. 

Darius grips him by the back of his neck, pinning him. Draven’s ass rests at just the right height and Darius snaps his hips forward, buries himself again without preamble. Draven screams, fingers curling into claws as he’s fucked and Darius feels the burn too, in his cock, his legs, his core, the pinpoint spot between his shoulder blades that had throbbed all day while he stood like a stone-faced automaton, bureaucrats _pontificating_ in delicate terms about wars they’d never fight in. Darius hadn’t had time left over for training, and this hardly makes up for it. He can punish Draven for that, too.   
Despite the pain in his protesting body pleasure burns just as hot, a relentless build that begins in the depths of his innards, radiating outwards in stringent, irregular pulses. His balls hang low, full and demanding. Draven thrashes beneath him, his grunts and groans bleeding into each other with each plunge of Darius’ cock until they form one long, feral howl so loud that it rings against the stone.

Just a stray bitch in heat, Darius would say, if his chest would unlock. If he could draw any spare breath for words. 

Draven’s flailing has proven fruitful—his head cranes back, torso twisting to its limit to face Darius as he rails him into the mat. The dark paint he wears under his eyes is streaked with tears, thick tracts running over gaunt cheekbones to mix with the blood and spittle smeared across his mouth. He’s grinning. 

Darius sees red, falling forward in the instant he takes to blink. His fist closes around Draven’s throat with his body weight behind it, and Draven’s eyes bulge outward. The rictus grin, however, barely falters. 

Too close now to thrust properly, Darius resorts to bearing down until their bodies are flush and even as he bottoms out in Draven’s guts he jerks, straining for more depth. Sweat pools in the divots of his stomach, behind his knees. Darius sneers and feels it bead atop his upper lip. Beneath his hand Draven’s throat spasms, split lips working frantically to frame a voiceless _please, please, please_. 

“You’re sick,” Darius says, digging his nails in for emphasis. He eases up just enough for Draven to steal a breath before the vice closes down again and, with a mighty heave, Darius raises one massive thigh to bracket Draven’s body, shifting his weight. This time when he withdraws, almost pulling free entirely before sliding back in a brutal thrust, Darius watches Draven’s eyes roll back like a man possessed and knows that both of them are done for.

Draven’s body is too tight, greedy for his cock. It has been too long since Darius had spilled that the need for it now overwhelms him—he fucks Draven into the mat, his rhythm uneven, his breath coming hot and fast between bared teeth. Draven’s eyes are blown, rimmed red. Foam bubbles at the corners of his lips. Darius allows himself to imagine the sound of snapping bone, and it is sweet. Sweet like poison, like the blistering apex of agony-bliss that rides on an arrow’s point, pushed through skin before it can be broken off. The pain turns real somewhere behind his ribs, and Darius gathers the feeling and spits it out. 

It lands against Draven’s cheek, slides down to drip into his gaping mouth. Darius watches him shudder, visibly hurtling toward the end. 

“You are something after all,” Darius says in a foreign voice, fire mixing with the thunder in his bones. “ _Mine_.”

Draven’s eyes disappear into his skull. He seizes once and then goes rigid, face blooming with color, thick tongue lolling helplessly between his teeth. Darius feels the moment he comes—walls clenching around him tighter than any fist, milking him for everything he has even as Draven goes slack, sagging against the mat as he slips from the conscious world. Darius is not far behind. The white-hot point behind his balls throbs in tandem with the pressure around his cock until at last he stills, his grip on Draven’s throat relinquished for better purchase on his hips. Darius mounts him like an animal, rope after rope of spend pulsing from him, pulled from his very depths and he roars, shaking with the force of it. 

His vision returns slowly, his hearing slower still. Draven twitches below him, dazed but breathing. Darius pulls out and stands, tucks his still-dripping cock back into his breeches and watches, impassive, as Draven drags himself into a ball on the mat, wracked by hacking coughs as he swallows air. The eyes that find Darius are nearly vacant. He stares back until he sees something spark in their depths—a whisper of spirit. “Clean yourself up,” Darius barks, as if Draven is just another of his legionnaires and not the flesh and blood he’d rutted near to death. “I hear you’ve got a title to defend tomorrow.”

He leaves him there, alone in the dark. Takes the stone steps back to the arena level, strides across the dust and out through the side door with the stars and blazing Noxian flags his only company. Darius will return to the castle and report; the matter is dealt with, no need for future worry. Draven will behave. 

Until he doesn’t. And when that day comes Darius will be there to run him aground, to consume and be consumed all over again. 

**Author's Note:**

> The driving force behind this ship in my mind has always been a thought I had once: 'what if, despite being feared and adored by hundreds, the only person who's love and approval Draven cares about is his brother's?' Naturally because they're both severely fucked individuals I don't see any sort of outcome to this that's healthy lmao. They only had each other for so long, and that kind of codependency lends itself to the type of obsessive orbiting that I find really compelling. Anyway, cheers!


End file.
